The Black Lily
by lizardwriter
Summary: Naomi Campbell is a philanthropic entrepreneur by day, but by night...well, she's got a secret she's trying to keep. One acrobatic redhead might figure it out, though. Oh, and there's a masked vigilante at large in Bristol. ;


**A/N: I know what you're all thinking…What? Another new story? Seriously? Do you know how many you have ongoing that you need to finish? To which I can only reply: Yes, yes, I do. This isn't really new, though. It is to you lot, but it's not to me. It's been sitting on my computer for over a year now, doing nothing productive, and, well, what's the point of a story if not to be read? So I've decided to share it with you. Maybe reviews will spark me to actually continue with it. Maybe not. I'm beyond the point of making promises, especially at this point where I really NEED to focus on non-fanfic related things. However, I thought you all deserved to see this. And, thanks to the pestering of darthcaiter, I'm somewhat convinced that it should be read (and apparently written and finished and done so by Christmas, but that's super unlikely). **

**Anyway, I hope you like it. Feel free to leave comments if you have them. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Skins or Batman, but this mix of the two did spring from my brain. **

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**.**

You sit watching over the city. At night, in the dark, with the wind whipping through the few strands of your hair that have managed to escape the confines of your mask and hood as you perch atop the Wills Memorial Building, you feel invincible. Your ears are pricked for any sounds of distress in the city below. There's always something. Bristol's hardly low-crime.

Nothing specific catches your attention, so you lean back for a minute, letting the sounds of the city blend into each other and fade away until all you can feel is the wind rushing past your head.

You like it up here. It's nice, even on a cloudy night like tonight and it beats the hell out of your plans for tomorrow night. Still, a girl of your station (not to mention of your wealth) is expected to behave in a certain way, attend certain events, and see certain people. It's for this reason that when a Mr. James Cook, a rather ruggedly handsome, albeit crude, independently wealthy young man, asked you to accompany him to the Fantabulous Fitch Charity Circus tomorrow night, you had politely (if somewhat reluctantly) accepted.

A sudden scream in the darkness draws your attention back to below your perch. You train your ears and focus in on the sound. It's about three streets over. Mugging. You hear the click of a switchblade being flicked out.

You stand from your crouched position and, in one swift motion, you leap over the edge, cape flapping for a split second before it catches the air and glides you down until you land softly on a nearby roof.

You dash across it with what you know others would describe as grace, but you put down to practice and a naturally good balance and athletic stature. You leap from rooftop to rooftop smoothly, practically soundlessly, and before you know it you're looking down over a youngish woman with long blonde hair and a fragile frame. The man with the knife you recognise. Local meth-head, willing to do just about anything for some money, although he's rarely carrying a weapon. You wonder idly where he got one from before you drop down silently behind him.

"You don't want to do that, Mikey," you assure him.

He turns and you can see the madness behind his eyes. He's going through withdrawals. He's desperate, and you know as well as anyone else that it's a small step from desperate to dangerous. He changes his grip on the knife so that he's holding it at his shoulder like a dagger, ready to strike should you attack.

All it takes is a swift roundhouse kick and the knife is clattering away onto the pavement. Mikey stares at you for another second and you can practically see the wheels turning in his drug-addled brain, weighing up his options. Apparently he decides that it's a fight he's not fit to win, because moments later he's running around the corner and off down the street. You don't bother chasing. He's relatively harmless, though maybe you'll drop by his normal hang out and have a little chat with him about the evils of weapons and drugs later.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!" The woman's saying and, much to your surprise, she throws herself into your arms. You tentatively pat her on the back but inside you simply wish that she'd stop invading your personal space.

As soon as she releases her grip on you, you step back, nod at her, pull the grappling hook in a gun from your pocket and shoot it up. You don't need to look where you're aiming. You know the city like the back of your hand. A second later it catches. You do an experimental tug, just to be safe, and then you release, letting it pull you up and away.

You know that tomorrow there will be another story in the newspaper about the _Black Lily_ swooping in to save the day. She was definitely the type to run to the media with her story. You've seen it before: grateful today and media hungry tomorrow once the fear's worn off, looking for anyway to make a pound off their story. You sigh as you land lightly against a building and swing yourself up to the roof. You never wanted the attention. You just hated injustice and thought that maybe you could do some good.

At least nobody knows your true identity. You'd never escape the reporters. Then again they seem to dog you in your daily life anyway. You have no doubt that along with the article about the _Black Lily_, there will be an announcement of your outing with Mr. Cook. It's inevitable really when you're the single wealthiest resident in Avon and Somerset and a bit of a philanthropist.

You sigh again. It's the life you live. There's no point in whining about it.

You detach the end of the grappling hook from the building and secure it back at your side. A few more leaps and jumps, and a bit of climbing, and you're back on a suitably high perch.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, opening up your ears for any further sounds of distress. You resume your silent vigil over your City.

.

.

"Busy night?" Effy greets you with a cup of tea and a predictably thinly veiled disinterest.

"Not especially," you reply, shrugging out of your jet black, skin tight disguise, leaving on the thin tank top and shorts you wear beneath it. It's especially designed for stealth and protection. You take the cup of tea thankfully and sink into your reclining chair.

Effy hangs up your outfit then joins you. You've known her your whole life. You remember playing hide-and-seek with her on the Grounds when you were little, when her mum had worked for your mum. That was until your mum got murdered.

Anthea, Effy's mum, had continued to work around the house after it happened, keeping everything organised and tidy, and even moving in to keep an eye on you so that you didn't have to move out or go into foster care. But, something changed as time went on and she had a breakdown for whatever reason a few years later and disappeared.

Effy never talked about it, what happened to her mum, and you never talked about yours, and it wasn't a problem. It worked.

She had taken up her mother's position, but, more than anything, she's the only person around you that you truly consider to be a friend. She is the only one who knows your secret, and she's kept it well. She's not a big talker, and that suits you just fine.

You sit in silence, savouring the hot tea as it burns its way down your throat and warms you from the inside out. You've got enough time to get a few hours of sleep before you've got a board meeting for your latest charity project and then you'll need to start getting ready for tonight. You sigh heavily, wishing that you hadn't agreed to go to the circus tonight with Mr. Cook. Though it is for charity, you remind yourself. An orphan's fund, if you remember correctly, and that hits rather close to home.

You stifle a yawn before downing the last of your tea. It doesn't go unnoticed.

"Time for the _Black Lily_ to get to bed. Naomi Campbell needs to get up and be productive soon," Effy says pointedly.

You nod your agreement and drag your weary limbs upstairs to your bedroom. Sometimes, despite all the trouble you know it can cause - trouble that you don't need, you wish you had someone who would help you in to bed, someone to lay beside you at night and soothe your aching muscles.

It's not until you're alone, in bed, staring at your dark ceiling, barely able to make out the corners of the walls with the minute trickle of early dawn light slipping out from behind your blackout curtains, that your mind travels back to the start of all of this, before the papers had given you your designation, before you had arch nemeses, back to the worst day of your life.

You were only fifteen and, despite your family's wealth, you were rather grounded. Your mum had made sure of that, never trying to shelter you from the real world. Still, that hadn't even come close to preparing you for that night when you were heading home from the rally for alternative fuels, an experience your mother had insisted you needed, and it had been such a nice night that she'd suggested you walk home while Anthea drove the car. You were only two roads away when it happened. _A random act of violence_ was what the papers had called it in the weeks that followed. To you in the moment, though, it hadn't felt random at all.

It had seemed surreal, the way that the man had simply slunk out of the shadows, blending perfectly in to them one moment and then looming before you, large and hideous, impossible to miss with the jagged scar stretching the length of his face. You had only focused on his face for a split second, however, because the harsh light from a nearby streetlight gleaned on something metal being pulled out of the man's jacket. Next thing you knew, you were staring down the barrel of a gun. You'd heard they'd been becoming more common, but you hadn't really believed it, hadn't had to, until that second.

You remember your mum pushing you behind her, her unheeded plea to spare your lives and for him to take whatever he wanted. You remember peering around her shoulder, catching the wicked gleam in the man's eye, the unattractive way his scar had rippled as his mouth had turned into a sneering grin, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. Then there had been a flash and a deafening boom, and you'd ducked instinctively. You'd thought your mum had as well because suddenly she was down on the ground with you. It must have been a warning shot, right? Nobody would shoot with such little provocation, surely.

You had felt your mother's body jar sideways and realised that the man had snagged your mum's diamond necklace right off her neck.

You felt rage bubble through you and you wanted nothing more than to snatch it back, but the gun froze you in place. You kept waiting for your mother's protest, but it didn't come.

You had turned back to her, only half aware of the way the man had mumbled, "Doc will be pleased," before scurrying off into the darkness. Your attention was instead drawn to the pool of red slowly growing on the ground next to you, spreading out from your mum, who you realised was disturbingly pale of a sudden.

"Mum!" you'd shouted out, shaking her gently. "Mum, it's okay. He's gone!"

She hadn't responded; her body limply moving from side to side as your shaking became more violent. You hadn't wanted to process the basic facts in front of you. You couldn't. She couldn't be gone.

You'd been informed afterwards that you'd still been screaming out "Mum!" when the police had arrived fifteen minutes later. You remember the way that they'd had to pry you away from her body forcefully.

Even at her funeral a week later you hadn't really accepted it. How could you? How could anyone have asked you to accept the fact that your mum was never coming back? That you'd never get to see her again? That she'd never get to watch you grow up, never see the woman you'll become, never see you get married, have kids, or any of that?

You shake your head to rid those thoughts from your mind. You've long since learned that it's best not to dwell on the times you'll never share with her. Instead you let your mind linger on the one aspect of the funeral that you'd found at all peaceful: the lilies. Both the church and the gravesite had been covered in them as they'd been your mum's favourite, you'd found it fitting. You'd got to take many of them home. They'd littered every flat surface in your drawing room for weeks until you could barely stand the sight of them and Effy and Anthea had wordlessly cleared them out one day.

You'd gotten over not wanting to set sight on them, though, and the lily had become a symbol of your mother to you, a reminder for why you do what you do.

You visualise the flower, tracing the graceful lines of it in your mind's eye. It soothes you, calms you after a hard night's work.

Just before you drift off to sleep your mother's face flashes into your mind, kind and smiling, as you'll always remember her.

"I love you, Mum," you whisper to your empty room before sleep overcomes you.

.

.

"So if we could simply have a grant of a mere three million pounds, we would have enough funds to begin the drilling. Your investment would, of course, be returned to you with a twelve percent interest rate," the young, well-spoken, African man ended his presentation with a flourish and a smile.

You shoot a quick glance at the newest member of the board, one Douglas Edwards, who had surprised you with this little presentation, claiming it was a brilliant way to put even more money back into your charitable funds. You sense his term will be short-lived. Clearly he hasn't done his research into what makes you tick.

You exchange a glance with Kieran, who you trust to do the day-to-day management of most of your charities. He's been with the company since your mum was alive, and in some ways he's as close to a father figure as you've got. The expression he's wearing let's you know that you and he are of the same mind.

You glance at the paper you'd been handed at the beginning of the presentation to refresh the young man's name in your mind. "Thank you for that, Mr. Tomone –"

"Thomas, please," the man hastens to say with another large grin.

"Thomas," you accede, "I'm afraid that you've come to the wrong place."

"Sorry?" Thomas asks, still trying to smile, but confusion overtaking his expression.

"I have no desire in helping destroy this planet any more than has already been done, and drilling for oil would do just that," you explain coldly.

"So you're saying, no?" Thomas double-checks, smile quickly fading from his face after all.

"Correct," you assure him.

"But,but...Ms. Campbell –" Douglas splutters.

"A big fucking no," Kieran cuts in, shooting a glare in Douglas' direction. Kieran is not on your board and your right hand man because of his diplomacy, but he does possess a certain directness that you value. You know that he was rather fond of your mum as well, and both of you, thanks to her, were rather dedicated to saving the planet.

"If you, however, come up with a proposal for alternative fuel sources and need some funding, please feel free to return with a new proposition," you offer, taking pity on the now crestfallen man.

"Better fucking step up your game, though," Kieran grumbles in warning.

You do your best to repress a grin at Kieran's words as Thomas scrambles to gather his materials and quickly exits the room. You watch Douglas turn to you, and you think he's about to attempt to protest again, but he appears to think better of it and instead hurries from the room himself.

"Who recommended him for the board?" Kieran mutters, turning to you. "Thought he was supposed to have a brain in that head. Seems to just have mild jangling things between those large ears of his."

You stifle a small laugh and then turn back to the rest of your board, all of whom have the common sense to be pretending not to have overheard that comment. You do catch the hints of grins on some of the more senior members' faces, however; those more accustomed to Kieran's candidness. "Is there any other business that needs to be addressed today?" you inquire authoritatively.

There is a collective shaking of heads and glancing at watches.

"Very well, meeting dismissed. I shall see you all next month," you inform them.

They smile and nod, most shuffling out swiftly, a few lingering to make polite small talk with you before they too disappear.

"Got that circus tonight, right?" Kieran inquires.

"Yep," you reply, forcing a smile that he sees right through.

"With James Cook?" he asks, disapproval seeping into his voice.

"Right again," you confirm.

"You can do better, Naomi," Kieran tells you straight.

"I know," you assure him.

"Ah," he nods. "Right, then. Have fun. Make sure he keeps his hands to himself," he imparts as a final warning before he leaves the conference room.

You nod absently as you pack up your briefcase with a sigh. You've heard the gossip too. Still, you definitely know how to handle yourself, and he'd been what you're sure was his version of chivalrous when he'd asked you. Maybe it won't be too bad.


End file.
